Haunted by my Demons
by MondaysChild42
Summary: John and Sherlock come from two very different backgrounds but both are struggling against their past. When fate brings them together they finally find someone who, in a way, can understand. But as they start to fix what's broken they find that they're in fact only starting to fall. (Even if you haven't read Mortal Instruments you will be able to understand)
1. Chapter 1: Running

John had always been a dreamer. He had seen things that other people didn't. But over the years he had learnt to keep his mouth shut as his father didn't approve, to say the least. Instead he had written it down. He had kept a journal of the wonders he saw. Every single strange happening he witnessed he had scribbled down in a red leather notebook.

And then his Father had found out. It had been as bad as John had worried it would be. He had come home to complete silence. Shouting out a greeting in the empty seeming house he had walked in to the living room to find his family sitting on the cheap sofas. Harry's face had been buried in Mums chest and Mums eyes were red and puffy, she had obviously been crying again. His father was obviously drunk, his eyes were bloodshot and he had slurred as he spoke; "John". That's when John had seen his journal open on the table. The only thought that had entered his head had been, 'Oh God.'

At first his father had been quiet, slowly and dangerously asking him about the journal. When his father had asked him about what was written, John had stupidly shaken his head not being able to find the words. That's when the shouting had started. His father had stood up and began yelling insults at John at the top of his voice. He had sprayed spit over John as he raved on and on, his eyes wide and crazed. John had just stood there, trying not to make it worse. Then Harry had started to cry and John had become angry. He had always been extremely protective of his little sister, especially since his father started hitting Mum. Politely, he had asked his father to calm down as he was scaring Harry. That's when his father hit him. He punched John hard on the right side of his face, knocking him down. He had then kicked John while his Mum screamed for him to stop and Harry just cried. spat on John and left, slamming the door behind him. They all knew he was headed to the pub to drink away the small amount of money they had.

John had stumbled up and looked at his Mum, sobbing her eyes out, terrified. "I have to go. I can't stay here," he had said. He had taken the small amount of cash he had in his room and grabbed his coat and his warmest beige jumper. He had crossed the room to where his sister was crying, kissed her on the forehead, nodded goodbye to his mother and left the grotty, run-down council home forever. It had felt strange, closing the door behind him. He had grown up in that house and deep inside he knew he wouldn't ever be coming back. Wrapping his coat around him he had walked off into the night.

It had been around 8:00 when he left. It was now around 1:00 and he was still walking. He had caught the tube, taking it into central London and had spent the rest of the time walking, trying to figure out where the hell to go. The light of a street lamp let him see the sign at the corner. Baker Street. John had no idea where he was. Lost. He leant against a wall and slid down it. He would sleep here tonight and make decisions tomorrow. It was cold, freezing cold and he was tired. His face hurt where his father had punched him as well as his chest aching where he had been kicked. He pulled his coat around him, to protect him from the cold. It was fur-lined and smelt of a mixture of his aftershave and the washing powder his mum used. It smelt like home. He was so tired. He was slowly drifting off, to sleep.

Notes:

Okay, this is my first fanfic which I hope you like! It will have more Sherlock and Shadowhunters later. Even if you don't know what Shadowhunters are, please keep reading. Johns going to have to find out as well. Please comment, feedback and criticism is welcome :)


	2. Chapter 2: Finding

Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own either of these series or any of the characters.

Thank you for the reviews :) You will be finding out a lot more in this chapter.

Notes: My description of Baker Street is not accurate. I'm describing it as a small, unknown street which fits in with what I imagined for this story. It's actually much bigger and a lot more modern but let's ignore that for stories sake.

Sherlock hated demons. He hated them with a passionate fire. It was just the way he had been brought up. Demons were natural enemies of human kind and people like him had to fight and kill them. That was the way it was. It had only added fuel to the fire of his hate when a greater demon, Marax, murdered them. His older brother, Mycroft, often joked that Sherlocks hatred of demons was the only real emotion. He hadn't spoken for a week after that because of the punch Sherlock gave him. But Mycroft did have a valid point. Sherlock seemed cold on the outside but watching him chase and kill demons revealed a fiery, passionate side to him which would have surprised many people.

He wiped the acidic blood of an Eidolon demon off his serif blade as he turned the corner into Baker Street. It had been hiding in an old warehouse when the group of young Shadowhunters had tracked it down. The warehouse had been decrepit with broken windows and no roof. Water had puddled on the floor, soaking Sherlocks legs as he hunted down the demon. It had begged, under the guise of a young girl, with blonde hair and a slight lisp, for them to leave her alone. Sherlock had felt no guilt as he had driven the glowing knife into its chest. The girl the demon was pretending to be had been one of its victims a few nights ago. It was a demon, not a girl.

As Sherlock strode ahead, cleaning his serif blade he could hear his brother and Mycroft's Parabatai, Gregory Lestrade talking quietly, heads close together. They had been Parabatai ever since they were children and Sherlock knew that both of them wanted something more. Neither Greg or Mycroft would admit it though, they were both too proud or stubborn, depending on how you looked at it. Sherlock strode ahead, trying to get away from them. He had nothing against their 'relationship' but the sexual tension in the air was infuriating. It was so tangible that Sherlock could taste it. And it drove him crazy. How could two people who were supposedly clever be so desperately stupid when it came to certain aspects of life?

Baker Street was dimly lit and familiar. Sherlock's whole life had been spent living in the London Institute, situated on Baker Street. He had studied the Georgian architecture whilst growing up. He knew every corner, every nook and cranny, every brick and every paving stone in the street. He had spent his childhood wondering up and down the street, sometimes trailing Mycroft and Greg as they went off to hunt demons, other times just wondering and observing the world. There was so much that human beings, especially Mundanes but often Shadowhunters, missed and Sherlock could safely say he knew nearly everything there was to know about Baker Street.

The other side of the street was dimly lit. A single guttering street lamp overlooked the cracked pavement. Sherlock knew that pavement well; he had spent many days jumping over the cracks as a child chanting rhymes, actually believing that he could break his Mothers back. Even after he had learnt that it was one of the few superstitions without any basis he had still expertly avoided the cracks. That was until his parents died. Now he barely thought of it as he strode across the pavement.

The street lamp came back on for a moment with a buzz. A bundle of clothing had been left underneath the Baker Street sign, Sherlock noticed as he reached the door of 221. He vaguely wondered why someone would leave clothes on Baker Street. There was no comprehensible reason. The clothes moved. Sherlock spun round and stared at them, weapon already in hand. It wasn't a bundle of clothes as he had previously thought, but a homeless person. Sherlock relaxed slightly and glanced towards Greg and Mycroft. They were walking together, extremely close, talking quietly. Sherlock had no idea what they always had to talk about but they always seemed to be conversing. Anyway, neither of them had noticed that he was suddenly armed. Love dulled your senses, especially when it came to the other person.

Sherlock knew that he should probably go inside to where his Aunt, Sarah Hudson was waiting for the group to return. But he wanted to see who was sleeping across the road. In the end the insatiable curiosity won out. It always did. Crossing the road, not even bothering to check for traffic. For all he cared a car could of killed him and he wouldn't have even blinked in disappointment. It wasn't that Sherlock was suicidal, it was just he couldn't see the point in living. He found no joy in being alive.

As he reached the person he knelt. His clairvoyant sight runes meant he could clearly see the boy with the light hair, wrapped in a large coat. From across the street there was a shout from Greg, "Hey, Sherlock! What are you doing?" Sherlock glanced up for a moment and waved the two shadow-hunters on. As he pushed the coat away from from the boys face he noticed how blue his lips were and the bruises darkening the left side of his face. He couldn't be more than 16, the same age as Sherlock. Domestic violence then. Parent had hit him, probably the father, judging by the size and shape of the bruises. There were cuts just beneath his eye, which was swollen shut, indicating that the person was married. The boys eyes fluttered open. He was shivering. Only been out on the streets for a few hours. His dark blue eyes stared at Sherlock. He then sighed out, "Help me, please" before he became unconscious again. Sherlock jerked back in surprise. The boy could see him. Pushing up his sleeve he checked that the concealing rune that meant that he couldn't be seen. But the boy had seen him. He had looked right at him.

As he waved Greg and Mycroft over he shivered slightly. They had to take this boy into the Institute. He could see past the runes, who knew what else he could see. But the funny thing was, this boy hadn't just looked at him, he had seen Sherlock. He had looked into him, trusted him. Asked him for help. All Sherlock really knew for a moment is that whoever this boy was, he could see things in a way that no one else could.


	3. Chapter 3: Meeting

Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own either of these series or any of the characters.

Thank you for all the reviews :)

John opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was room he was in. It was very white, clinically bright with a row of beds lining one side of the room. The second thing he noticed, was how cold he was. His skin was warm, almost feverish but he could feel the cold reaching deep inside him. Freezing him from the inside out. He started to shiver violently, his teeth chattering. A movement from across the room made him turn his head to stare.

Opposite from the bed he was lying in there were three dark, leather chairs arranged so whoever sat in them would have a clear view of the bed's occupant. Standing next to one was a boy who had just risen from it. As John stared at him he felt a hint of recognition. The boy was tall and slender, wiry, with curly, dark hair. His cold blue-green eyes peered into Johns for a moment before coming over. Reaching over Johns head towards the metal headboard he flicked a small switch. Smirking he returned to the chair he had been sitting in before.

"Mundane technology," he commented in an offhand way, "Can often be useful." John frowned at him in confusion and opened his mouth to speak. The boy looked at John again, "Electric blankets. One of the best inventions ever, especially for colder, northern hemisphere countries such as Britain. I'm Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes. You're John Watson."

"How did you know?" Croaked John. His voice was surprisingly hoarse and the right side of his face hurting, "Where am I? Who are you?"

"I know because you had your idea in your wallet. I checked it. You are in St. Bartholomew's hospital and I'm Sherlock Holmes."

What - who? Why am I here? What happened?"

"You slept the night on the street. You were freezing. There was a risk of hypothermia so I brought you here when I found you."

"I don't understand. Why did you bring me here?"

"I told you. There was a risk of hypothermia." John sighed and pursed his lips, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock once again had the feeling that John was staring right into him rather than at him. He continued, "Also, you can see me. Even now when you're not sick."

John laughed slightly, "Of course I can see you!"

"You shouldn't be able to. Mundanes, especially ones that end up sleeping on the doorstep of the Institute, should not be able to see us."

John frowned, "Sorry? I really have no idea what you're going on about though."

Sherlock shook his head, feeling confused. It was an unpleasant feeling that he wasn't used to. "I must go now. I wish you a swift recovery."

John sat up as Sherlock rose to leave, "Wait! Who are you? I don't know anything about you! What should I do?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking slightly annoyed, "I don't know. Why should it be my problem? Report your father to the mundane police? Now, goodbye." With that he swept out of the room, his long black coat billowing behind him leaving a baffled John.

Lying back down John felt extremely confused. It wasn't the first thing he had seen which he knew he shouldn't have. It wasn't the strangest by far. But it was the only one which had ever acknowledged him. And it hadn't answered any of the lingering questions which had been with him his whole life. If anything, Sherlock Holmes had just added to them.

At that moment a nurse came into the room. Seeing he was awake she walked over. "Ah, you're awake finally! How are you feeling?" She asked friendly. John nodded as she checked his temperature. He was still lost in thought. "So," continued the nurse, "How did you get here? We found you unconscious on the doorstep. And who are you? You had no I.D on you."

"John. John Watson." Mumbled John, staring towards the door which Sherlock Holmes had walked through moments before. The nurse couldn't see him, John knew that. He knew better than to mention it. He was like all the other impossible things John could see, captivating but fleeting. But he was also closer to an answer than John had ever got before.

Reviews and feedback are always appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4: Thinking

I don't own Sherlock despite my many attempts to. I will keep you updated on this.

Sorry for the loooonng break in updates and it's only a short one this time. I had an awful case of writers block mixed with extreme procrastination.

Werewolves were boring. So predictable. Especially ones like Sebastian Wilkes.

Sebastian Wilkes outwardly looked like a City of London banker. He had a wife and two children at home. But he was a werewolf. Not any werewolf, the leader of the City of London pack. It was not the biggest pack in London but it was the cleverest, the richest and the most powerful. They also had a deep and dangerous rivalry with the Battersea Power Station vampire Coven. That's why Sherlock was there.

Yet another fight had resulted in a mundane injured. Sherlock had been sent down as a warning. Or a peace maker, officially. But everyone knew it was a warning.

As Sebastian droned on about peace treaties, territory agreements and repayments Sherlocks mind drifted. It eventually settled on the topic that had been bugging him for four months now. John Hamish Watson.

John Hamish Watson was an enigma that Sherlock couldn't get his mind around. The percentage of people who could see through glamours was around 0.001% but still John had ended up outside the Institute of all places. It could have just been a coincidence, like Mycroft and Greg had told him it was, but Sherlock did not believe in coincidences.

His rapid train of thoughts was interrupted by a girl poking her head round the door. Fifteen, werewolf, quite smart. Relatively pretty Sherlock supposed. Just come back from an Indian restaurant, judging by the smell on her clothes and the lines on her hands from carrier bags. Probably getting lunch for the pack. He had passed a takeaway on the way here. She was worried about something Sherlock noted as he examined her face.

"I'm sorry to interrupt but I have some important information." She spoke nervously, obviously not wanting to be there. Sebastian nodded and said, " Spit it out then Molly. " The girl bit her lip and glanced pointedly at Sherlock who raised an eyebrow at her in return. "Anything that you need to say to me can also be said to Sherlock." Said Sebastian sternly. Molly nodded then nervously blurted out, "There's been another attack, this time it's a boy called Michael Stamford. Up in Wimbledon." Sebastian nodded in dismissal and Molly left the room.

"I'm sorry, but can we finish off this conversation another time? I must go and look into this," he said graciously rising from the chair. Sherlock stood up to join him and nodded unceremoniously. They shook hands and Sebastian departed. As Sherlock made to leave he saw Molly standing by the door.

"Why is it so urgent that he go and check out this attack?" He asked her quietly. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide. "Didn't you know? There have been a whole load of strange serial killings all around London. Someone just drops dead, in front of a crowd and when the body is examined they find these markings on their backs. Look like this," Molly grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil from the desk and started sketching.

"They're all exactly the same," she continued, "These lines. Exactly the same width but different lengths. And they all start at the shoulder blades." Sherlock stepped forwards to look. Molly's sketch was a rough outline of a human back with sharp, thin lines radiating out from the shoulder blades almost like, "Wings." he said. Molly nodded. The lines were clearly shaped like a pair of angel wings folded across the victims back. "There are never any other bruises or marks on the skin, no poisons or anything. Just these. It's almost like their hearts just randomly stopped."

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip and nodded, staring down at Molly's drawing. Swiftly he picked it up and folded it in half. "You mind if I keep this?" He asked Molly who was staring up at him wide-eyed. "Not at all," she said quickly, smiling shyly. Sherlock put it carefully inside his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. As he walked away from Molly he dialled Mycroft. "Get up to Wimbledon now, there's been a murder I need to take a look at."

As always reviews appreciated and thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5: Dying

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock despite my many attempts to. I will keep you updated on this. _

John pulled the bright orange shock blanket around him. Oh God. Mike Stamford, his best friend was dead.

They'd been walking along together, going to a movie when Mike had collapsed. John quickly knelt down beside him and seeing that he was unconscious taken his pulse. There wasn't one. John only knew basic first aid from a course he'd learnt a few years ago but he remembered everything. He yelled for someone to call an ambulance and pushed his friend onto his back. He'd tried to give him CPR but it hadn't worked. When the ambulance had finally arrived they'd taken Mike away and given John the blanket which he was still holding.

Mike had been declared dead immediately.

"Are you sure there were no signs that he was about to collapse?" Asked a middle-aged nurse for the fifteenth time. John shook his head still dazed. Poor Mike. Nothing had been wrong with him as far as John could remember. But what was he supposed to do now? He couldn't go home but he couldn't stay at Mikes flat. He had no other friends he could stay with permanently. Maybe he could sofa surf for a bit until he figured out what to do but what else could he do? Guilt hit John as he remembered one of his best friends was dead and all he could worry about was him.

Snippets of conversation floated up to him from the few people near the ambulance. "Exactly the same as the other four..." A doctor remarked to a police officer standing a few meters away. "No signs or anything peculiar," whispered two nurses. "The Clave should be notified" said a tall man in dark clothes in the shadows. "There's no need to," replied his companion sharply. His voice was familiar. Johns head jerked up and he stared to where the small group was standing at the edge of the crime scene. The familiar voice continued as John struggled to place where he had heard it before. "It's probably not a demon or downworlder, just some crazed mundane. Even if it was we can just hunt it down like normally. There is no reason to disturb the Clave." As the speaker stepped out of the shadows John finally recognised him. Sherlock Holmes, the mysterious boy who had brought him to the hospital.

He pulled himself up and walked towards the group, ignoring the nurse who called for him to sit back down immediately. As he approached them, slowly, a policeman stopped by the trio and said something to them. John stopped in his tracks. The policeman could obviously see them. One of the group, tall with ginger hair, turned to him and said something, causing the policeman to nod and turn away. John carried on walking towards Sherlock, feeling confused.

He stopped a meter behind Sherlock and glowered at his back. Loudly he cleared his throat. Sherlock ignored him and carried on talking to the other two boys. John cleared his throat again. Sherlock sighed impatiently and said, without turning round, "Be patient, will you?" John shook his head and then felt like an idiot as he realised Sherlock couldn't see him. "No, Sherlock Holmes, I won't be patient. I want answers, proper answers this time," he said outloud. The tall thin boy spun round and stared at him incredulously. He quickly regained his dignity and straightened up. "John Watson. What do you want?" He said nodding coldly at the shorter boy. John stared up at him, equally as cold and repeated, "I want answers, proper answers."

One of the boys with Sherlock, the one with dark hair and and a scar on his neck, stepped forwards and spoke, "What's going on Sherlock? Who's this?" Sherlock waved his hand at him not taking his eyes off John. "Just an acquaintance, Greg," turning his full attention back to the boy in front of him he raised his eyebrows, "I don't know what you're talking about." John scowled at him in annoyance. He was so impertinent. "I think you do know. Why can I see these things? These monsters? Why could I see you when no one else could? What the hell did you do with my driving licence?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "For the first three, I have no idea. Probably a genetic defect in your DNA. As for the last one, I forgot. Put it down somewhere probably. I don't even remember taking it. Maybe you lost it. Now I have important work to do, goodbye." He said sharply. With that he turned on he heel and strode off. The other ginger boy sighed and reluctantly followed him but the last boy stayed behind staring at John quizzically. John glared at him and snapped at him, "What?" The boy shook his head slightly and almost looked like he was laughing. "What?" Repeated John. He was already sick of these mysterious people, in their black clothes and tattoos of strange symbols on their arms. The boy spoke "Just, just nothing. Sorry Sherlock's a bit of an idiot. You can see through the glamour?" John nodded slowly, unsurely and the boy continued, "I'm Greg, Greg Lestrade. If you ever really need help, I mean you're desperate - otherwise it would be difficult to help you, then come to 221 Baker Street." Greg nodded at John and hurried after Sherlock and the other boy leaving John alone at the crime scene.

_Sorry this took me a long time to get out, especially as I promised to get it out ages ago. I'm such a procrastinator and I was in Greece for two weeks. So yeah... But I promise to get the next few chapters out much sooner. Well, I'll try. As always, thank you for reading and I appreciate any reviews._


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